THE CAGE of THE ENEMY
Daisy is dragged into the Shadowstorm throne room in chains. King Norman Schultz offers her a brutal ultimatum: marriage in exchange for the survival of Eastern captives. She accepts—not out of surrender, but strategy.
Hook: Norman reveals her brother's body was never found.
Part I
The scent of blood and iron saturated the air so thickly it felt as though Daisy were breathing through rusted chains, the metallic tang settling at the back of her throat while the torches lining the cavernous throne room spat smoke into vaulted shadows above, their flames bending in unseen drafts like nervous witnesses unwilling to steady themselves beneath the weight of what unfolded in that chamber. Her wrists burned where silver shackles cut mercilessly into her skin, the alloy laced with wolfsbane biting deeper with every subtle movement, every strained breath, every tremor of muscle that betrayed the toll the battle had taken on her body, and yet she refused to sag under the punishment, refused to grant them even the smallest satisfaction of seeing her knees buckle. The chains suspended her arms high above her head from an iron hook embedded in the stone ceiling, forcing her body into an exposed posture meant not just for restraint but humiliation, a display of conquest designed to announce to every noble, warrior, and servant gathered in the hall that the Eastern Pack had fallen and its last heir now hung like a trophy in the court of the man who had burned her homeland to ash. Her once-pristine white battle leathers were shredded along the shoulder where a blade had grazed her, dried blood stiffening the fabric into jagged crimson petals that flaked when she shifted; some of that blood was hers, she knew, but much of it belonged to the wolves who had tried to drag her down before she'd finally been overwhelmed, and that knowledge steadied her spine even as exhaustion crawled like frost beneath her skin. She would not bow. She would not beg. She would not shatter beneath their gaze.
A ring of Shadowstorm warriors encircled her, their armor blackened steel etched with gold insignias that gleamed in the torchlight, their golden eyes tracking every flicker of pain that crossed her face as though it were sport, as though she were prey still struggling in the jaws of a hunt not yet complete. They were larger than the wolves of her homeland, broader in shoulder and colder in expression, disciplined not only by strength but by hierarchy so rigid it radiated from them like an aura of sharpened obedience. These were the conquerors whispered about in trembling taverns and around dying hearthfires, wolves who did not merely defeat rivals but absorbed them, who erased bloodlines and rewrote borders with talon and flame, who bent entire territories to their will without apology and without remorse. Daisy had grown up hearing stories of their king long before she ever saw him—stories told by scouts who returned pale-faced from distant patrols, by traders who swore they'd glimpsed him on a battlefield standing unmoving while chaos burned around him like a crown of smoke. The devil of Shadowstorm. The Alpha King who never lost. The strategist who never forgave. The ruler who believed mercy was a contagion that weakened thrones. And now he sat only yards from her, close enough that she could see the subtle rise and fall of his chest as he breathed in the scent of her blood without flinching.
Alpha King Norman Schultz did not lean forward in anticipation, nor did he smirk with theatrical cruelty as lesser tyrants might have. He lounged against the back of his obsidian throne with a stillness that was infinitely more unsettling, one arm draped along the carved armrest as though this were nothing more than another tedious political audience rather than the presentation of his most dangerous enemy. Draped in black and gold, the royal colors clinging to his broad frame with tailored precision, he looked less like a beast and more like inevitability—like the storm before which even mountains learned to bend. The flickering torchlight sculpted his features into harsh planes of shadow and bronze, accentuating the sharp line of his jaw, the high arch of his cheekbones, the faint scar that traced down from his left temple to disappear beneath his collar, a reminder that even kings were not immune to blades. His golden eyes—brighter, fiercer than any in the room—rested on her with unnerving focus, not devouring, not mocking, but measuring. That, more than anything, unsettled her. He was not looking at her as a broken princess. He was assessing her as an asset.
"You fought longer than predicted," he said at last, his voice carrying effortlessly through the hall without the need for raised volume, smooth and controlled, yet edged with something metallic beneath the surface. The murmurs among the gathered nobles died instantly at the sound of it. "Most surrender when the gates fall."
Daisy swallowed blood from where she had bitten the inside of her cheek earlier to keep from crying out, forcing her voice steady despite the dryness in her throat. "Most don't have anything left to lose." A flicker—barely perceptible—crossed his gaze. Not amusement. Not anger. Interest.
He rose slowly from the throne, and the shift rippled through the room like a drawn blade. Every warrior straightened. Every noble stilled. Power moved with him, not because he demanded it loudly, but because he embodied it so completely that even silence bowed. He descended the steps of the dais unhurriedly, boots striking stone in deliberate rhythm until he stood directly before her, close enough that she could see the faint golden flecks within his irises, close enough to feel the heat of him contrasting sharply with the cold bite of her chains. "You are Daisy Albert," he said, not as a question but as a confirmation. "Daughter of Alpha Rowan. Last of the Eastern bloodline." Her pulse faltered at the finality in his tone, but she forced her chin higher. "You forgot princess." "No," he replied quietly. "I did not."
The subtle shift in phrasing unsettled her more than a denial would have.
He circled her slowly, studying the damage she had endured, the bruising already blooming across her ribs, the steady defiance in her posture despite the pain radiating through her shoulders. His presence pressed against her senses, not wild like a rogue wolf's aggression but controlled, coiled, as though even his instincts were disciplined to obey command. She had expected rage. She had prepared herself for cruelty. What she had not prepared for was restraint.
"Your father sent three envoys before the war," Norman continued conversationally, though the hall remained rapt in silence. "Each one demanded concessions he knew I would refuse. He positioned troops along my border while negotiating peace. He allowed his council to circulate rumors of insurrection within my territories. You understand what that makes him." "A leader protecting his people," Daisy shot back, though doubt flickered dangerously at the edges of her memory. She had not been privy to every negotiation. She had trusted her father's judgment without question.
Norman stopped in front of her again, gaze sharpening. "It makes him a man manipulated by someone who wanted this war." The words struck harder than any blow she had taken on the battlefield.
A murmur rippled through the court, quickly silenced by a raised hand from the king. Daisy's breath hitched despite herself. "Lies," she said, though the word lacked its former conviction. "You invaded us." "Yes," he agreed without hesitation. "I did." The admission stunned the room. "But I did not start it." Silence fell so thick it felt suffocating.
Before she could respond, the massive doors of the throne room slammed open with a resounding boom that echoed through the stone chamber like a cannon blast. Every warrior pivoted instinctively, hands dropping to sword hilts as a figure strode inside clad in travel-worn armor dusted with ash and snow. General Damon Vale, Daisy realized from overheard battlefield whispers—Shadowstorm's most loyal commander, a man whose name inspired both fear and reluctant respect across rival territories. His dark hair was tied back at the nape of his neck, his expression carved from granite as he approached the dais and dropped to one knee before the king.
"Your Majesty," Damon said, voice tight with urgency. "We've intercepted a courier from the northern passes." Norman did not take his eyes off Daisy. "And?".b"The seal on the message bears your brother's crest." The air in the throne room shifted violently. Norman's expression did not change, but something colder moved beneath his skin, something lethal and ancient. Daisy sensed it immediately—the ripple of internal fracture hidden beneath perfect composure. "My brother is dead," Norman said evenly.
Damon hesitated. "The letter suggests otherwise." Every instinct in Daisy sharpened. She had heard rumors of the king's brother—Prince Rael Schultz, presumed killed during an uprising years ago. If he lived… if he had been moving unseen…
Norman extended a hand without looking away from Daisy. Damon placed a sealed parchment into his palm. The wax insignia was unmistakable—twin wolves beneath a crescent blade. Norman studied it for only a second before breaking the seal. As his eyes scanned the contents, the silence stretched thin as wire.
Daisy searched his face for reaction and found none—but the tension in his jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. "What does it say?" she demanded before she could stop herself. Norman folded the parchment once, then twice, and handed it back to Damon. "It says," he replied calmly, "that the Eastern war was engineered."
A tremor of confusion shot through her chest. "By whom?" she pressed. His golden gaze locked onto hers with renewed intensity. "By someone who benefits from us destroying each other." The implication hovered between them like a blade suspended midair. "And you expect me to believe that?" she challenged. "I expect you to survive long enough to decide." The words were deliberate. He turned to Damon. "Remove the shackles." Gasps erupted across the court.
Daisy's head snapped toward him. "What?"
"She is not to be executed," Norman said clearly to the assembly. "Nor will she be paraded as spoil. She will be housed in the eastern tower under guard. As of this moment, Daisy Albert is under royal protection." Shock rippled through every face in the hall.
"Majesty—" a noble began in protest. Norman's gaze silenced him instantly. "Any challenge to that decree will be considered treason."
The authority in his voice was absolute.
As warriors moved forward to unlock her chains, Daisy's mind raced violently. This was not the path she had anticipated. She had prepared for imprisonment, torture, public humiliation—anything but protection.
The shackles fell from her wrists with a metallic clatter, and pain surged through her arms as circulation returned in fiery waves. She staggered forward, nearly collapsing—only to feel a firm hand close around her elbow, steadying her.
Norman. For a split second, their eyes met at the same level. "You are either my greatest threat," he murmured low enough that only she could hear, "or my strongest ally." Her pulse thundered. "And if I choose neither?" she whispered back. A faint, dangerous smile touched his mouth. "Then we both die."
Across the hall, unnoticed by most, Damon's gaze shifted toward the shadows near the upper balcony, where a figure stood partially obscured behind a pillar—watching.
Prince Rael stepped back into darkness before anyone could fully register his presence.
The war, Daisy realized with chilling clarity, had never truly ended. And she was no longer certain who the enemy was.
Part II
The corridor leading from the throne room to the eastern tower felt colder than the dungeon she had half expected to be thrown into, and Daisy could not decide which unsettled her more—the iron cruelty she had prepared for or this calculated restraint that stripped her of clarity and replaced it with something far more dangerous: uncertainty. The guards flanking her kept a respectful distance now that her shackles were removed, though silver cuffs still circled her wrists loosely enough to remind her that freedom was conditional, a privilege granted by a king whose motives remained obscured behind disciplined control. Every step sent sharp protests through her bruised ribs and torn shoulder, but she refused to limp. She would not allow these wolves to see fracture where there was only fury carefully leashed. Yet her thoughts churned violently beneath the composed exterior she forced into place. Engineered. The word echoed through her mind with merciless repetition. Engineered meant design. Design meant intention. Intention meant someone had wanted Riverfall to burn.
The palace corridors were not the barbaric stone passages she had imagined during nights spent hating the man who ruled them. Instead, they were lined with dark polished marble veined in silver, banners bearing the Shadowstorm insignia hanging at precise intervals, each one perfectly aligned as though even cloth here obeyed structure. Torches were spaced evenly, their flames steady despite drafts—a subtle indicator of architecture designed to control airflow. This was not a savage kingdom. It was organized. Disciplined. Efficient. The realization unsettled her more than brutality would have. Monsters were easier to fight than systems.
As they ascended the spiraling staircase toward the eastern tower, Daisy's mind drifted unwillingly to the final moments before Riverfall's gates had collapsed. She remembered the confusion—signals misfired, reinforcements that never arrived, border scouts who had vanished without trace days before the invasion. At the time she had attributed it to overwhelming force. Now, doubt carved thin fractures through those memories. What if the information they had relied upon had been altered? What if someone had ensured that both kingdoms misread the other's movements? What if her father had not been reckless—but deceived?
The heavy wooden doors of the eastern tower chamber opened with a low groan. The room beyond was expansive, far larger than she expected for a prisoner's quarters. Tall arched windows overlooked the forest stretching beyond the capital's walls, moonlight spilling across stone floors softened by thick woven rugs. A hearth burned low at the far wall. A large bed stood near the center, its dark frame carved with wolves in mid-howl. No bars. No visible restraints. Just space.
"This is not a cell," she said quietly.
"It is not meant to be," replied the guard captain, a tall woman with braided silver hair streaked through black. Her gaze held neither hostility nor warmth—only assessment. "You are to remain here under watch. The door will be guarded at all hours. Attempt escape, and the king's mercy may prove… limited."
Daisy turned toward her. "Does he often show mercy?". The captain's expression flickered almost imperceptibly. "Rarely." "Then why now?". The woman hesitated for a fraction of a second before answering. "Because he believes something is wrong."
The door shut behind them with a final thud that echoed through the chamber. Daisy stood alone.
For several long moments she did not move. The silence pressed inward, broken only by the faint crackle of firewood and the distant howl of wind against stone. Slowly, deliberately, she crossed to the nearest window and pressed her palms against the cool glass. The capital sprawled beneath her—a network of torchlit streets and watchtowers arranged with geometric precision. Patrols moved in synchronized routes. Nothing chaotic. Nothing neglected.
If this kingdom had engineered Riverfall's destruction, it had done so with extraordinary subtlety. And if it had not— A knock came at the door. Her muscles tensed instinctively. "It is the king," came Norman's voice from the other side.
She did not respond. The door opened anyway. He entered without guards, closing it behind him with quiet finality. He had removed the formal black-and-gold cloak he wore in the throne room; now he stood in a fitted dark tunic that revealed the breadth of his shoulders and the faint map of scars tracing his forearms. He looked less like a monarch in that moment and more like a soldier who had never quite stopped being one.
"You have questions," he said.
"You have accusations," she countered.
His gaze moved to her wrists where faint bruises were already darkening. "The shackles were unnecessary."
"You allowed them.""Yes."The honesty unsettled her again.
He moved toward the hearth but did not sit. Instead, he remained standing across from her, posture relaxed but alert. "If I wanted you dead, Daisy, you would not be standing."
"Then why am I?". "Because my brother's seal should not exist." The temperature in the room seemed to drop.
"You believe he orchestrated the war?" she asked carefully. "I believe," Norman said, voice lowering, "that Rael has always believed himself the better ruler." "And you never thought to question his loyalty before he conveniently 'died'?" His jaw tightened. "He led an uprising against our father. The attempt failed. He disappeared in the chaos. A body was recovered." "Convenient," she echoed.
His eyes flashed, but not with anger directed at her. With something darker. Self-reproach, perhaps. "You think I wanted Riverfall destroyed?" he asked suddenly. "Yes," she answered without hesitation. "I think you wanted territory."
"And if I tell you I was fed intelligence that your father was preparing to strike first? That Eastern forces had already infiltrated my northern villages?". She froze.
"He sent envoys demanding trade concessions while mobilizing troops behind forest cover," Norman continued. "My scouts intercepted coded messages discussing alliance with rogue packs along my border."
"My father would not—" "Your father was proud," Norman cut in sharply. "And pride is easily weaponized."
The implication struck her chest like a blow. Pride. Her father had been many things—strategic, stern, fiercely protective—but yes, proud. He had despised Shadowstorm's expansionist reputation. He had warned her repeatedly that Norman Schultz was not to be trusted. But warnings did not equate to conspiracy. "You're rewriting history to absolve yourself," she said, though her certainty was thinning.
He stepped closer, close enough that she could see tension pulsing beneath the calm surface he wore like armor. "If I wanted absolution, I would have executed you in that hall. Your death would have solidified the narrative that I crushed rebellion. Instead, I'm telling you something that weakens my own authority."
She searched his face for deception and found none—only rigid conviction. A sudden sharp knock struck the door again. Norman did not break eye contact as he called, "Enter." Damon stepped inside, expression grave. "They found him," the general said. Daisy's pulse stuttered. "Found who?". Damon's gaze shifted briefly toward her before returning to his king. "The courier. He was killed before he reached the inner gate. Throat slit. No witnesses."
Norman's expression hardened into something lethal. "Was the letter intact?" he asked. "Yes." "Then whoever sent it wanted us to read it." A chill crawled down Daisy's spine. "Or," she said slowly, "someone wanted you to think he's alive." Silence followed. Norman turned toward her fully now, eyes narrowing not in suspicion, but calculation.
"Exactly," he murmured. Damon's brows drew together. "You think this is a trap?". "I think," Norman said, "that someone wants to destabilize this court. And nothing destabilizes power faster than doubt." His gaze slid to Daisy again. "Which makes you," he added, "both a vulnerability and leverage."
"Leverage for what?" she demanded. "For truth." Before she could respond, another figure appeared in the doorway unannounced. Varik.
Unlike Damon's open intensity, Varik carried himself with quiet invisibility despite his tall frame. His dark hair fell loose around his face, and his gray eyes seemed to absorb details without revealing reaction. He did not bow deeply—only inclined his head slightly.
"There is movement in the northern pass," Varik said calmly. "Small units. Not large enough for invasion. Large enough to provoke." "Whose banners?" Norman asked.
"None," Varik replied. "They carry no insignia."
A silent message passed between king and spymaster.
Rael never moved without symbol.
Which meant someone wanted them to believe it was Rael.
Daisy's thoughts aligned with alarming clarity. "You said your brother believed he was the better ruler," she said quietly. "What if he still does?"
Norman did not answer immediately.
Instead, he looked at her with a depth that felt almost invasive.
"If he lives," he said at last, "he will not come for the throne directly."
"Why?" she asked.
"Because he knows I will meet him blade to blade."
A subtle shift in his tone made her skin prickle.
"He will come for something else first."
"Like what?" Damon pressed.
Norman's golden gaze never left Daisy's face. "My queen."
The word landed between them like a spark in dry tinder. Daisy's breath caught—not because of the title, but because of the implication.
If Rael—or whoever orchestrated this—wanted destabilization, targeting her would fracture both kingdoms simultaneously. "You think I'm bait," she said flatly. "I think," Norman replied, "you are the fulcrum."
A sudden crash echoed from somewhere below in the courtyard—shouts rising immediately afterward. Damon moved for the door at once. Varik vanished into shadow with unnatural fluidity.
Norman reached for the sword mounted above the hearth in one seamless motion. Daisy stepped forward instinctively. "Stay here," he ordered.
"You just said I'm the fulcrum," she shot back. "If this is about me, I'm not hiding behind stone walls." Their gazes locked.
In that suspended second, something shifted—not trust, not alliance, but recognition. She was not prey. She was not fragile.
She was a force. Another crash sounded—closer now. Norman made a decision.
"Fine," he said sharply. "But you stay behind me."
"Not likely."
A flicker—almost reluctant amusement—touched his mouth before vanishing. They moved for the door together.
As it swung open, smoke curled faintly down the corridor, and the distant clang of steel striking steel reverberated upward. The war had not ended. It had followed her here.
And somewhere in the chaos rising beneath them, a shadow watched from the darkness beyond the palace walls—smiling at how easily kings and queens could be maneuvered when pride an
d grief were the strings pulled tightest.
The game had begun long before Riverfall burned. Daisy had just stepped onto the board.